


Party

by SkinSlave



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Amputation, Biting, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Torture, Death, F/M, Gags, Non-Consensual Bondage, Psychological Torture, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex, Shooting, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-06-28 02:57:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19803289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinSlave/pseuds/SkinSlave
Summary: An after-party with the band sends two fans spiraling into an inescapable horror. Is it a nightmare or a dream?TW: non-con contact, explicit torture, wet hair, party games, made-up song lyrics.





	Party

The finale was still throbbing in her chest. Her ears were ringing and she was pretty sure she'd be smiling for the rest of her life. She was floating toward the exit when the woman in a staff shirt stopped her. She followed her to a small security room to one side.

"You're not in trouble," the guard insisted kindly, scrolling on her phone. "I promise. I just need to verify some information real quick, and hopefully give you some good news."

"As long as I'm not under arrest, it's fine. I've had the best time tonight."

"I'm glad… uh, Elizabeth?"

"Yeah. Liz Baxter. I was in C-39."

"Do you still have your VIP lanyard?"

She held it up, beaming. The woman checked it and scrolled again. She focused to read something in small print, then smiled warmly.

"Ok, Liz. You've been invited to a small afterparty with the band. If you're interested, there's no charge to attend. The band is providing a shuttle. If you have a vehicle in our parking garage, we'll hold it for 24 hours. Unfortunately, the invitation is just for you, not anyone else in your party."

She blinked. A part of her brain had snagged on "with the band" and was struggling to catch up. As the terms of attendance sank in, she giggled and stumbled over her words.

"No, uh… I mean, yes. I'd love to go. I took an Uber, so no car. And I didn't exactly have a date or anything. Just me. So… What do I… Where do I go?"

The woman typed something into her phone and led the way. They skirted the stage in a service corridor that was packed with other people in staff shirts. Liz kept her eyes on her guide until they arrived at a small alcove. Another girl and an older man were waiting.

"Just hang tight. We're expecting one more."

She left them huddled in the nook. Staff crossed in front of them, going about their business. The three chosen fans buzzed with inner excitement but said nothing. They were understandably nervous.

The wait was excruciating but she finally returned, frowning. She stopped in the hall and the traffic moved around her as though choreographed. She typed on her phone for a minute or two, then looked up and smiled.

"Just you three, then! Follow me please."

Outside a back door, in the private lot, was a white van. To the right, they could see the tour bus. The woman opened the sliding door and motioned for them to get in.

"Where's the free candy?" the man quipped, climbing into the last row.

The women followed. Once they were settled, the driver pulled out. They passed nearby nightclubs and bars, heading toward the outskirts of the city. Boredom soon had them making introductions.

The man was Stacy. He worked in the bottling plant on the east side. He was mildly obsessed with the bass player. Petra was a student with a heavy accent that Liz couldn't place. She was lovely. And, like Liz, she was a longtime fan.

They discussed the concert until the van stopped, in an alleyway between warehouses. Liz was so excited she almost felt faint. She imagined strobe lights and loud music. Or maybe deep shadows and mountains of drugs. Or a heart-shaped hot tub.

As they followed the woman inside, there was no music or hot tub. Just a small, disused office and a hallway that echoed their footsteps. They settled in the office on folding chairs and waited. Their guide left and they resumed their chatter.

Eventually, the door opened. Manson stepped through, apparently freshly showered, shirtless and damp. He did, however, have a full face of purposefully ruined makeup. Liz's heart nearly stopped.

"Who's ready to party?" he smirked, nodding at the chorus of excitement.

"Is the whole band here?" Stacy asked tentatively. "I was kinda hoping to meet Juan. I'm learning bass and-"

A deafening bang made the girls jump. They looked to see if the door had slammed. Instead, they saw Manson, arm outstretched, holding a pistol. The smell of spent gunpowder made it through the echo of the blast. Liz turned slowly toward Stacy.

He had slumped in the chair. His mouth was open, lax. There was a smudge of blood on his forehead and more on the wall behind him.

"Y-y-you shot him," Petra muttered.

"Yeah." Manson's matter-of-fact tone was bizarre.

"W-why?"

"Because I don't like people who don't worship me," he sighed. "Anybody else come to see the goddamned  _ band _ ?"

He waved the gun in their direction. The women both shook their heads furiously. The corners of his mouth twitched. He burst into laughter.

"I'm kidding!" he grinned. "I just don't play with men. Who names a boy 'Stacy' anyway? Ok… party time! Come on."

He tucked the gun into the waistband of the dark jeans he wore and waved for the girls to follow. Petra hesitated. Liz knew she couldn't leave the other girl behind. She grabbed Petra by the arm and they followed, jogging to catch up.

He led them down the hall and into a huge empty space. A semi trailer had been backed in through a large bay door. The trailer door was open and a light was on inside. A shadow moved on the floor. Someone else was there. Manson directed them away from it, toward another office.

Inside was a setup that reminded Liz of a child's birthday. A long table held a stack of pizza boxes, a few liquor and soda bottles, and a cake. Black and red balloons had been taped to the walls. The door clicked shut and he headed for the food.

"Pizza, ladies?"

The girls stood against the wall, watching as he put slices on plates. He offered them and they accepted, but didn't move. After serving himself, Manson sat in a chair and sighed heavily.

"Are you upset by that gag? Ok, so it wasn't a good joke. But don't let that spoil the party. Come on."

Liz sat, smiling awkwardly. The show was prop-heavy. It must have been a stunt to freak them out a little. Like pulling a fake gun in an interview. The pizza smelled delicious. She hadn't eaten since breakfast. Petra joined her. 

Manson asked questions between bites - Did they live around here? Boyfriend? Husband? Kids? What was the best part of the set? Did they think the new album was derivative of his old demos? Should he grow his hair out longer?

The more they talked, the easier it was to accept that Stacy was a plant with special effects squibs. After all, there wasn't much blood. It was kind of funny, how they fell for it. What would a Manson party be without a little shock?

After a slice of cake, a few selfies and a few drinks, he stood up and clapped his hands together.

"Party game! Winner gets first go at the next game. Gimme the next line… 'You're like watching a burlap sack…'"

He pointed at Liz. She grinned, confident in her knowledge of his discography.

"... sink wriggling into the river.'"

"Yes! 'I damage you, dismantle you…' Petra?"

"'... staple you together, use you to cum,'" she sang, on pitch and louder than expected.

"Damn," he laughed. "You belong on stage! Which gives me an idea… for later... Liz, your turn."

They went back and forth, referencing songs from the past 20 years. As the game went on, the women became more competitive. Manson began to give high-fives and hugs with every answer. Liz felt a blush rising and remembered reading somewhere that games raise testosterone levels, and libido, in women. Maybe that was his intention.

"'She knows she's not growing, she's gonna…'"

Petra's face fell. Her brow knit and her eyes darted as she searched her internal catalog. Liz felt triumphant, but also disappointed in the prospect of ending the game. She bounced a bit, the song playing in her head.

"Come on," she said softly. "You know this one. It's from the soundtrack to  _ Soft Kill _ ."

The other woman tapped her foot and hummed in frustration. Manson held his hands up and slowly lowered one finger at a time. The pressure seemed to make it worse. The last finger folded.

"Liz," Manson said seriously, "if you can finish the lyric, you win the game."

"'She's gonna suck everything and explode.'"

"Yes, she is. Come here."

He sat and pulled her onto his knee. His hair smelled like mint. How was it still damp? He wrapped his arm around the small of her back and looked into her eyes. He was beautiful.

"Congratulations," he whispered. "I'm going to give you the opportunity to let her go first instead, if you want."

The way he said it made her feel like he was offering an advantage. She agreed. He brought their faces close, inhaled audibly. She was surrounded by mint and heat. She wanted him to kiss her. Instead he bounced his knee and she stood.

"New game!"

Manson crossed the room and opened the door. The women followed him back into the open area. A kind of privacy screen had been set up in front of the door to the trailer. He fell back a step, wrapped his arms around the girls and guided them around it.

The inside of the trailer looked a little like a Bloodmobile. One of the long walls held a kind of vinyl-upholstered bed. The other wall was lined with shallow cabinets. Manson's hands continued to push the women toward the trailer. Petra slowed down a bit.

"Is this a… a sex thing?" she giggled.

"Of course it is," he purred, helping them into the trailer. "What's a party without a truly thrilling party game?"

Liz chewed her bottom lip. She stood where he indicated, at the foot of the bed. A part of her regretted giving up her turn.

Petra was glowing and more than a little handsy. Between the vodka and the lyrics, her anxiety had vanished. Manson lifted her onto the bed and she laughed loudly. He quieted her with a finger to her lips and guided her to lie down.

"Sing me something," he said as he dragged his hands down her arms. "Something sexy."

"You burned that bridge just to see me go up… Pitched a match in the darkness..."

Her voice was so rich, another thing to spark Liz's jealousy. He hummed along. His fingers found restraint cuffs at the sides of the bed and nudged them around her wrists. She didn't fight. If anything, she sank even farther into the padding.

"You know," he interrupted, "I'm not sure that you're getting it quite right. Breathe from your diaphragm."

He moved to her feet, strapping them down as well. Petra dutifully opened her chest and continued.

"I hoped you'd breathe in my smoke… How fitting would it be... if I choked you and brought you with me…"

Manson resumed humming. He turned, opened one of the cabinets and pulled out a leather gag. The bulb was spiked steel. He thumbed at Petra's lips. She opened to mouth at him and he slipped the gag in instead. Her eyes opened wide and she yelped. He buckled the strap around her head and clicked his tongue.

"No, it wasn't the breathing," he said as though to himself. "Maybe you just don't understand the vulnerability of the song."

He turned again and dug in the cabinet behind him. Petra lifted her head and the women's eyes met. She shook her head and sobbed. A trickle of blood escaped the corner of her mouth. Liz gasped. It wasn't just uncomfortable. He was hurting her. She glanced at the open door.

"You're staying for the party, aren't you?"

It wasn't a question. Liz hesitantly looked at Manson. His face was blank. The black pools of eye shadow, the smudged lipstick, the broad tattooed chest, the features of the man she'd found so attractive, were suddenly sinister. She nodded, her heart in her throat.

"Good," he grinned, pulling a heavy leather apron over his head. "Zip me up?"

He turned, offering the apron strings. Liz stared for a moment at the branching skeleton embedded in his skin, feeling it vaguely appropriate. She took the straps and began to cinch them. She couldn't see his eyes slowly close in satisfaction.

When he was tied, Manson thanked her and hit a button at the side of the bed. Much like the donation chairs it resembled, it folded. Petra whimpered as it brought her torso up. Humming, Manson pulled a pair of scissors out of the pocket on his apron.

He yanked the bound woman's blouse open. Buttons scattered and bounced around the trailer. The scissors sliced through the remaining fabric until he could pull it free. He made short work of her skirt, leggings and undergarments. He tossed each piece out of the door. She mumbled, screamed and sobbed. More blood dripped from behind the gag.

"See," Manson rumbled, clearing his throat, "the bassline and the beat fuck, but the lyrics  _ feel.  _ I need you to  _ feel  _ the lyrics.  _ Feel  _ the nakedness."

He slid the scissors back into his pocket, traded them for a knife from the cabinet. He dragged the point lightly over her skin, leaving a white scratch. Slowly, he traced her collarbones, areolas and navel. He wrote his initials between her breasts.

"Do you feel naked?" He cocked his head as she nodded. "Good girl. Now, a song always needs some amount of pain. And not just because it's beautiful…"

He lowered his head and kissed a tear from her cheek. She was breathing shakily, struggling to keep her jaw and tongue still. He licked the salt from his lips and ran the blade from her breastbone to her belly. She screamed.

The skin parted and the gap filled red. It started thick, rising in beads, then thinned out and dripped. It drew Liz's eye like a lava lamp. In the heat and noise of the trailer, she focused. There weren't any words in her head, just slick color and gravity.

Manson moved toward the door and stood behind Petra's head. He leaned over her and sliced again and again, a set of three slashes down her torso. It was almost, but not quite, an M. He was staring intently at the other girl.

"Liz knows about pain, doesn't she?" he whispered. "You can see it in her eyes. She wants you. She probably would've fucked you before but now she wants to take you apart."

Liz shook her head. She'd never hurt anyone, never even considered it. The way he looked at her made her stomach drop. His sick smile tore his face in two.

"Touch it."

Liz pressed her lips together and shook her head. Manson shrugged and began to cut again. He drew half-moons under her tits and jagged streaks down her ribs. Petra trembled and wailed. A fresh flood of blood streamed down her chin.

"Touch it."

When Liz didn't move, he jabbed the first two inches of the knife into the soft mound right above the other woman's bush. She jumped, lifted her hand.

"Wait," she said tearfully. "Wait. Just stop, please. You don't have to do this."

A look of stark revelation settled on the man's painted face. He stood up straight and looked at the blade in his hand. It was as though he was seeing it for the first time.

"I don't? I guess… I can... let you go then."

"Really?"

Manson turned back to her, eyes shining. He looked down his nose with a domineering smirk.

"No. Now touch it or I'll slit her throat and wring her corpse out over your face."

Liz reached out tentatively. Her hand hovered over the puncture in the other fan's abdomen. Manson closed the gap between them with a frustrated growl. He grabbed two of her fingers and forced them into the hole.

"See?" he sighed. "It's nice. Warm and wet and tight, and all yours. Like a virgin's cunt."

He moved her hand, sliding her fingers in and out. The shrill screams faded into the squelching of blood. Manson pressed his body into hers. Liz watched, tears crossing her cheeks. Two fingers became three, fucking the wound wider. She cringed.

He stepped back. She didn't stop. Her fingers scissored and curled. In her mind, she was being forced. But he had turned back to Petra and was tasting the sweat gathered on her brow. Once Liz realized that she could stop, she did, and braced against a wave of nausea.

"What's another element of a good song?" Manson returned to the playful, expectant tone of the lyric game. "Anybody?"

Petra moaned and coughed. Manson waved at her dismissively. He looked to Liz. She didn't know what he wanted her to say. He slowly prompted her.

"Conn... ec… t…"

"Connection?"

"Yes!"

He wrapped his arms around Liz, groped at her ass. He was mint and water - still - and blood. Their lips touched. It was too much but she couldn't stop it. The knife was still in his hand. Her pulse felt like choking fingers. Her mind frosted over and something thoughtless and primal from the base of her brain rose up.

Her hands found his hips and pulled him closer. She let him bend her, let his tongue roam over hers. She moaned down his throat. Her nails scraped the exposed skin of his back. She shifted, rutted against his thigh, the slide of black leather.

He turned her toward the bed. She felt his tongue, then his breath, on her neck.

"Teach her connection."

Liz leaned over Petra and gently traced her fingertips over her nipples. They were small, pert, the color of Belgian chocolate. She kissed them, sucked them between her lips. They bounced as the bound woman struggled. It didn't feel like enough. In the chill of her skull, Liz thought she knew the kind of connection Petra needed.

She leaned down and traced a line through the red drool that dripped from behind the gag. Under the guise of laying sloppy kisses along her neck, she whispered.

"I'm sorry. I'm going to get us out of here. Stay strong."

Petra whimpered. After a long pause, she nodded. Her breaths deepened. They were wet and thick, but slower. The animal piece of Liz swelled, stood and spoke. Petra trusted her. It was satisfying.

Manson stood, watching intently. His wet hair hung over one eye. He clicked his tongue.

"Second chorus."

Humming, he turned back to the cabinet. He dropped various items into the large pocket on his apron. They clinked like loose silverware. He looped a black nylon belt around his wrist. He took up station next to the bed, forcing Liz toward the back of the trailer. Manson cleared his throat and started to whistle.

The strap slid around Petra's thigh, pushed as close to her groin as possible. He fed the free end through a large metal buckle. It ratcheted tightly. The flesh on either side went sallow as the blood flow stopped. Manson seemed satisfied.

"The closest thing to an angel," he sang, digging in his pocket.

It looked like a guitar string with handles. It could've been exactly that. He carefully positioned it below the tourniquet, encircling Petra's leg and crossed over the top. He cleared his throat and leaned into the handles.

As he hummed, he slowly worked the wire, pulling it back and forth. Petra shrieked and fought against the cuffs. Her skin gave way. The trapped blood below the strap welled up and overflowed. It poured over the vinyl upholstery and dripped, then slowed to an ooze.

"Taste it."

Liz looked up. He'd seen her admiring the surprisingly clean edges of the wound. Now he was admiring her. His cool gaze was bizarrely comforting. He was giving her permission to explore what she didn't know she wanted. She traced a fingertip along the deep cut and licked the blood from it. It was a rush like no other.

"Good girl. What does it taste like?" Manson asked.

"Like electric melon… like a woman, like…" Her eyes fluttered closed and she sucked her finger, then sighed. "Like eating pussy in a lightning storm, so wet and... passionate… please, I…"

A larger finger made its way into her mouth. It was sweet. Liz opened her eyes. Manson was watching, his tongue wetting his lips. She sucked eagerly. The blood coursed through her, just under her skin.

He finally took his hand back and rummaged through his pocket. There was an urgency, an arousal, in his movements. He could've been looking for a condom. What he found was a pair of heavy pliers with wide nubbed jaws.

He began to whistle again, louder, and dropped the tool on Petra's stomach. She was shaking but relatively quiet. It seemed a miracle that she hadn't passed out. He didn't seem to care. He worked a small blade under the edge of her skin on the nearest side to form a pocket and a long slice down her inner thigh.

Manson seated the pliers around the loose skin he'd made and closed them tightly. He braced a boot against the edge of the table. He pulled, grunting. Petra bloomed. The skin pulled tight, then gave at the cut, peeling away like a sock. The meat underneath was flocked with yellow fat.

Liz could smell it, feel its heat. Once Manson relaxed and moved out of the way, she took his place. Her hands ran over Petra's thigh, gristle and grease. It was an amazing texture, but there wasn't much blood. She gathered what she could on her palms and licked them clean.

He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her into his leather apron. His hands found her ass, her hips. He bent down to bite at her lips. She could feel the open grill over his teeth.

The more he touched her, the less she felt like Liz. The shyness, the need for validation, the weakness peeled away like so much skin. The parts of her mind that rationalized and denied froze solid and cracked. She began to understand that she wasn't those things. She was something that those things had been forged to shackle.

"I need…" she mumbled, fading the end.

"I know."

He turned back to Petra, looking at her as though she were an ordinary object. She had no color left. Her breaths were shallow. Liz had no medical training, but it seemed she was in shock. She should've felt fear or guilt, at least pity. All she felt was hunger.

"The third act," he said, touching Petra's clammy skin. "The bridge. The betrayal... Tell her."

Manson reached into his pocket and found a pair of tin snips. Liz took them from him and teased the cool steel over Petra's bloodstained stomach. The girl shifted, weak. 

"I'm not helping you," Liz said coldly. "I don't want to help you. You're going to die."

She captured one cocoa-tinted nipple between the jaws of the industrial scissors and squeezed. The nub of soft flesh came away and fresh blood spread over her breast. Excited at the red, Liz dove into it, sucking at the wound. The warmth coated her chin and cheeks.

Firm hands grabbed at her body, moved her back to the raw meat that had been Petra's thigh. He released the clasp on the tourniquet and it slid open. A gush of blood ran over Liz's hands and she moaned in delight. He leaned into her ass, grinding.

"You have no idea how long I've been waiting," he breathed, "how many parties, how many women…"

She fumbled with her shirt and bra, then rubbed the blood into her skin. There was so much of it. It dried far too soon and left sticky smears. He didn't seem to mind, squeezing her tits from behind.

"I want it," she growled, reaching back to pull him closer. "Please."

He didn't need much encouragement. In a few moments, he'd stripped her remaining clothes away and knelt behind her. She felt his lips and tongue, exploring her ass and making their way toward her center. She bent farther, widened her stance.

Her nerves were on fire as he licked her. Petra had gone still and the blood was no longer spurting. As Manson lavished attention on her clit, she shook the lifeless body beneath her. When she became unsteady on her feet, he pulled her on top of him.

The space was tight and the floor was slick. He finally positioned her on his lap, her legs wrapped around his hips, apron pulled out of the way. His cock was thick and near bursting. She took it slowly, gasping as though it hurt but delighted at the stretch. Finally, they were locked together.

"Please, Manson," she murmured. "I need it."

Despite the cramped conditions, he managed a deep thrust. Liz squealed and attacked his lips. He tasted like blood. She moved with him, tried to meet his stroke. She was already so close. Their movements seemed to shake the trailer.

"I can't take just anyone," he panted. "They need to have it in them already. They need to want it, need to need it."

Liz raked her nails down his shoulders. Her moans were deep and demanding. The room smelled of a slaughterhouse and felt like a sauna. The pressure built as she rode his cock.

Manson pulled her close and clamped his teeth down on her neck. The jolt of pain joined the intense pleasure and she lost control. She bucked against him and screamed. Through the throbbing of her orgasm, she felt him cum, pumping it into her as deeply as he could manage.

He didn't release his bite. If anything, he clamped tighter, until she was sure he'd broken the skin. Liz gasped and sobbed. The part of her that would've pushed him away, that was afraid of the possibilities, had drifted away. She held him close, dug her fingernails into his back.

The lights in the trailer seemed to dim. Her stomach soured. She moaned and wept. Finally, he let go. She could see him darkly, shimmering like a mirage. His mouth was covered in blood. It dripped down his front like honey. His wet hair still hung in his face. He was beautiful and ferocious. She tried to tell him, but he shushed her.

"It can end here," he said gently, "where it would have… or…"

He pulled the knife from his apron pocket and dragged it across his collarbone. A burgundy line appeared. Liz licked her lips. Her hands fumbled and she swayed. He understood, gathered her in his arms.

He tasted like tart cherries and a 9-volt battery. His blood was a thick syrup. It coated her mouth and slid lazily down her throat. She let out a decadent hum and teased the edges of the wound with her tongue. He held her, breathing deeply.

"That's it," he coaxed, "take big mouthfuls. It's important you get enough. It'll hurt soon, but that will be over quickly. And then, the real party begins…"

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
